


With a Heavy Heart

by GingerBruja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mi6 Victor Trevor, aithilin, mentions of Q - Freeform, recovery from depression, viclockgiftexchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerBruja/pseuds/GingerBruja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, four days after Sherlock’s Birthday, Victor and Sherlock made time for each other. Well, almost every year. The two men led very busy lives, what with one being the world’s only consulting detective and the other being an MI6 agent who belonged to a very elite group, known for their suave, efficient brutality.</p>
<p>One year it all stopped. Sherlock struggles with a long bout of depression and the others try to find away to keep him from falling too far. Little do they know, it was Victor's death that triggered it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).



Every year, four days after Sherlock’s Birthday, Victor and Sherlock made time for each other. Well, almost every year. The two men led very busy lives, what with one being the world’s only consulting detective and the other being an MI6 agent who belonged to a very elite group, known for their suave, efficient brutality.

On this special day, the two celebrated the official anniversary of the day when Sherlock was viciously attacked by Charlie, Victor’s bull terrier. After some cursing and the shouting, and the growling on Charlie’s part, Victor had fallen quick and hard for the young man, with his wild hair mussed and his T-shirt rucked up enough to expose a slender waist, but it wasn’t until after Sherlock’s high-speed deductions of Victor’s life that Victor knew that he had the found the one. Sherlock had taken a little while longer--about 2 years--to know that Victor was indeed his, which, incidentally, happened to be the same year that Charlie died.

“Lets go for a walk.” Sherlock, at the age of twenty-three, with his head dyed in an array of blues and greens, had held a very wriggly dog in his arms--the very same dog that belonged to Sherlock’s first client, as it happened. “I’m borrowing him in honor of Charlie, since he’s the one responsible for our inconvenient attachment to each other, having led you to barrel into me like the bulldozer you are.”

Victor smiled wistfully at the memory. “You deserved it for antagonizing him. Besides, your bony body offered me no cushion. I got bruised pretty badly.”

Sherlock reminded him about his own broken ankle and how Victor had carried him, bridal style, all the way to Mycroft’s house, as they walked and talked at length about the first day of their friendship and all the days that came after. 

Every year since that first walk, for sixteen years, they would meet on that day at whatever park they were closest to and walk whichever dog Sherlock managed to “borrow” for the day. As they walked, they told each other whatever they couldn’t in the letters, emails, or text messages they exchanged while Victor was away.

At the end of their walks, Victor always reached for Sherlock’s hand and said, “One day, Will, one day I won't have to leave.”

Sherlock would always squeeze back as if to say ‘I believe you’, even though he knew it was a lie. It was too difficult for Sherlock to take Victor’s words to heart, knowing that “One day I won’t leave” could easily change to “One day this will stop because I'll be dead." For Sherlock, the statistics were all too real to ignore. It was not a matter of if, but when.

That day came two weeks after John’s wedding.

***

When John found Sherlock in the drug den, he had almost believed the detective’s lies. True or not, he never questioned Sherlock again after the Magnussen debacle; since Sherlock never touched the drug again, it never became an issue. Everything had been so chaotic in the months before Moriarty’s mysterious resurrection, and the weeks after the major hacking incident were hectic for Sherlock and everyone involved. 

That was, until the mystery had come to a rather anticlimactic conclusion.

“It’s already being handled overseas.” Mycroft handed Sherlock a file with a picture of a man with short-cropped blond hair and a wicked smile. His features were rugged and scarred, giving him the appearance of a man who had been through hell and back. “Colonel Sebastian Moran was behind it. He is being hunted down by my best men as we speak.” 

Mycroft didn’t miss the way Sherlock’s shoulders hunched inwards. Victor would have been on this mission if he were still alive.

“Our dear brother found the hackers responsible for the broadcast. That’s how we were able to track Moran.” Mycroft spoke of the youngest Holmes, a legend within the hacking community.

Sherlock studied the picture of Moran. After a few beats of silence passed, Mycroft began to shift his feet as if he were expecting one of Sherlock’s usual barbed insults. None came. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock said as he still gazed at the photograph. “Is he responsible for…”

Mycroft sighed deeply and took his time, choosing his words carefully.

“Sherlock. We’ll make sure Moran pays. One of agent Trevor’s closest colleagues swore to it.”

“Did he, now,” Sherlock muttered, without sarcasm.

This reaction was not what Mycroft had predicted. He almost asked why Sherlock isn’t jumping with glee. We found him! We found the one who killed your beloved! Shouldn’t you be happy? But the look in Sherlock’s eyes kept Mycroft from speaking; he thought it best to let him grieve in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

It was September when John started to really worry about Sherlock. Ever since the mystery of Moriarty’s broadcast was solved, Sherlock had became more reserved. Every time John or Mary met Sherlock, he seemed preoccupied and would stare off into space. Even his movements were somehow slower.

Lestrade asked why John was worried; this was fairly common behavior for Sherlock. John shook his head. “No. When he’s behaved this way in the past, he was in his mind palace. This is different, I can tell. I don’t know how, but there’s something different about him now when he goes inside his head.”

As time passed, Sherlock began to choose his words more carefully. His sentences were shorter and more to the point, and the insults came to a stop altogether, which surprised everyone at the Yard. Eventually, Sherlock stopped making any appearances there at all. Every time Lestrade would call him about a case, Sherlock hung up or ignored his texts.

It was time for a group meeting.

“What do you think happened?” Lestrade huddled up on Molly’s couch, trying not to get swallowed up by the mountain of pink frilly throw pillows without much success. “Yeah, he’s been acting strange for a while, for Sherlock, but now this is getting out of hand.”

“Poor Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said as she tearfully blew her nose on a handkerchief. “Found the poor dear curled up on his bed yesterday, in a really bad way, so I tried to lure him out with one of his favorite desserts, but,” she sniffed again, “Oh, John. I don’t know what to do! I can’t help him, and I’m so worried.”

John looked down into his nearly empty cup of tea, guilt and worry evident in his frown. The memory of when he had declared Sherlock to be his best friend flashed into his mind; dammit, why didn’t he try to do something about this sooner? “My guess is, those three years he was gone weren’t easy for him. Maybe it all finally caught up to him. If Sherlock is suffering from PTSD, we need to be there for him as much as possible.”

Mary took John’s hand in support and smiled at her husband sadly. “We can all take turns checking on him and cleaning up the flat. Getting him outside is going to be the most difficult bit, but we’ll just have to be patient.”

After agreeing on a plan, the group set up a schedule everyone could work with and saved it to their phones. They discussed the issue with renewed hope and determination. Sherlock needed help, and this time they’d all work together as a team.

***

Since ‘The League of Friendship’ joined together--Molly coined the phrase--things seemed to be getting better for their consulting detective. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and even Anderson would clean up the flat whenever it was their turn. Angelo would send along Sherlock’s favorite dishes. John and Mary brought their daughter Ellie over, whose giggles and stumbles never failed to bring a small smile to Sherlock’s face and broke the spell he seemed to be living under, even if just for a moment. 

Lestrade and Sally were tasked with bringing Sherlock any likely cold cases they came across, and they recounted stories about their days and difficulties at the Yard without any prompting from the young detective. Sally went on a spiel about how absolutely stupid the criminal classes were and how they seemed to get steadily stupider. Sherlock chuckled when Sally told him about the day when Lestrade had arrested one of his old sweethearts for possession of a suitcase full of stolen jewelry. 

“I always wondered where my da’s ring went!” 

Sadly, the girlfriend had pawned it long ago.

***

When the Holiday season rolled around, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Sherlock had left the flat and helped Mary with the shopping a couple of times. He even took a fresh case from Lestrade and joined the Watsons for Christmas. 

John and the others knew that Sherlock tried to appear better from his bout of what was clearly depression. The evidence, however, told a different story. There were still quiet moments that seemed absent of the constant hum of activity from inside that brilliant brain, as if the switch to that brain flicked off whenever Sherlock got too tired.

He was still tired. Slower. Just a bit.

Another hint appeared in the shape of stacks of cold cases to the side of the sofa, most of them neglected and some files never opened. Sometimes John would pick one up from the unopened pile and flip through it, commenting about the details to his friend. Sherlock would roll his eyes before he turned around, sprawled on the couch and pretended to fall asleep.

That was all okay, though, because things took time. Mary had to remind John how long it had taken him to get out of his depressive state. “Things might get worse before they get better,” Mary whispered to her husband one night after putting Ellie to bed. 

John knew Mary was right, but at the same time he wished she was wrong about this. Everyone needed Sherlock to be better.

***

Things came to a head on New Years Eve. Mrs. Hudson called John, her voice distraught as she wept. “He locked the door and refused to let me in. I heard some crashes on the floor and the walls--oh John, please hurry.”

When John, Mary, and Ellie arrived, Mrs. Hudson was already waiting for them in the foyer. She wasn’t alone; Lestrade and Molly had also been waiting by her side.

“Take Ellie,” Mary said as she settled the little girl in her husband’s arms. “I’ll go up and talk to him. If anything happens I’ll give you all a shout and just… be ready, okay?” 

Then she turned to Molly. “Molly, I want you to go up there with me. I need someone to keep him company while I make tea. We both need to appear calm, safe, and solid if we want Sherlock to cooperate. I know that you will.”

Molly agreed immediately and followed Mary up the stairs. The two of them composed themselves, then knocked on the door. John could hear Mary’s muffled pleas and gentle voice from downstairs. He was surprised to hear the jingling of the door knob and a sharp click, and ah, Mary had picked the lock. He looked down at Ellie, who stuffed her little hand in her mouth and chewed. “Maybe in Uni, we’ll teach you how to pick locks responsibly like Mama.”

Ellie looked up at her father and continued to chew on her hand.

***

It took a good part of the evening for them to talk Sherlock down. John reassured Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade that everything would be fine and that Mary would know how to approach Sherlock. He felt that if it were him or Lestrade up there, they might end up creating a scene, which would make the situation so much worse. Both men’s emotions tended to get away from them when it came to Sherlock, John’s more so than Greg. 

He sighed at the thought of Molly and Mary comforting Sherlock with blankets and tea. It was a strange thought but reassuring all the same.

Around eleven o’clock, Mary and Molly finally descended the stairs. To everyone’s surprise, Sherlock followed at their heels.

“Hello.” Mary’s voice startled Mrs Hudson from her light doze; Ellie slept on peacefully in her lap. “We’re going for a walk in the park. Want to join us?”

John cocked his head at the idea and the lateness of the hour, but what he saw in Sherlock’s face, turned a little away toward the door, convinced him. If that’s what Sherlock needed, then so be it. 

“Let me get my scarf. Mrs. H, keep an eye on Ellie while we’re gone, please?”


	3. Chapter 3

It was the absolute worst time to be walking in the park, especially on New Years Eve. There were drunk people ambling around the streets, giggling and kissing, and it was cold, too damn cold for anybody in their right minds to be walking outside. 

Yet, inside their little bubble, Sherlock and his adopted family quietly enjoyed their walk, side by side, together. Nobody really spoke all that much, aside from a few comments about the passers-by who stumbled towards the local (or in one case, a tree) like giddy zombies. The experience was made better by Sherlock making quick deductions about their social and romantic lives. 

“Wears girlfriend’s clothing without the girlfriend’s consent. Pity, the girlfriend has similar kinks, if only they communicated.”

It was wonderful that Sherlock didn’t look so sad or empty as they kept on walking. The deep weight of gloom he carried seemed to have lifted from his core, and for that moment, Sherlock was himself again, a Sherlock they haven’t seen in well over a year.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped then turned to look at all his friends, “John, Mary, Molly, and Gerome.”

Greg grumbled, “It’s Greg!”

“Greg,” Sherlock corrected himself. “Thank you for being patient with me, and I apologize for worrying you. I’m lucky to have all of you even if you’re all insufferable most of the time. Mary and I discussed seeking professional help, and I promise I’ll do so tomorrow.”

“Oh Sherlock.” Molly lunged forward and hugged Sherlock tightly. “I’m sorry we didn’t do more, sooner.” 

Sherlock reluctantly hugged her back and gave her a small awkward pat. He hoped that she would stop soon so they can walk back to Baker Street, the chill was getting a bit too much to handle.

Sherlock sighed frustratingly when everyone joined in and enveloped Sherlock in a group hug--a group hug that, for Sherlock, seemed to last an uncomfortably long time--until someone standing a little distance away from them cleared his throat and spoke.

“Any room for me?”

Sherlock froze, his whole body tense. Molly felt Sherlock squeeze her shoulder a little tighter before she looked up at the man who stood only a few yards down the path.

“Sherlock,” she whispered as he broke away from them and walked towards the man.

“Who the hell is that?” Lestrade growled, none too pleased with the intruder who so rudely interrupted their moment.

“Shut up,” Mary said as she pinched Lestrade’s bicep. John looked curiously at her; she seemed to know something they didn’t.

The man’s posture was relaxed and confident, a different sort than Sherlock’s usual arrogant stance. He was taller than Sherlock, with dark golden skin that contrasted well with his black leather jacket and dark denim jeans. John observed that the man had tattoos peeking out of his white shirt collar and sleeves. Christ, he was handsome.

The second thing John noticed was the bull terrier, mostly white with light caramel-colored spots, who sat at attention near the man’s feet, much like the soldiers in his memories.

“Hello, darling,” the man said. His voice was as deep as Sherlock’s, and John had a fleeting thought about what an attractive couple they might make. Sherlock seemed to know him, though John had never seen him before. And what did Mary and Molly know? The two women had watched with laser focus since the man had spoken.

“Victor,” Sherlock gasped. 

Victor shyly stepped forward, the dog following. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, I um. Shall I introduce myself?”

Sherlock, if possible, looked more confused than before, as if he couldn’t believe he was talking to this man. He seemed unsure how to approach Victor.

“Sherlock,” John finally spoke up, concerned. “Who is Victor and how does he know you?”

It took the detective a few deep breaths before he gave John the answer. “This is Victor Trevor, my supposedly-dead, idiot boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Lestrade and John shouted because… Boyfriend?

“Oh, my,” Mary grinned. “He’s dishy--let’s trade.”

“Um… no.” Then Sherlock forced a chuckle, which didn’t do much to reduce the tension. “It seems that Victor and I need to have a long-overdue conversation. If you will excuse me, I’ll have a word with him.”

John and the others turned to walk away, but before they did, John stepped up to his friend and gave him a gentle squeeze on both shoulders. “If you need us, just give us a call. We’ll have our own talk later, okay, mate?”

Sherlock nodded, “Tomorrow afternoon… and will you bring Ellie?”

John grinned, then patted his friend’s shoulders in support. “Of course.”


	4. Chapter 4

It would be midnight when the ‘League of Friendship’ arrived back at Baker Street. Sherlock hoped that Mary and Molly would have told John and Lestrade about this entire ordeal by that time--the story of his grief over Victor, his feelings of hopelessness, and the ache of regret when he found out that he had lost him forever. He remembered the feeling of Molly’s soft touch on his hand and the warmth of the comforter that Mary covered his back with; it would be easier for him if they shared with the others for him what he had told them then. He suspected, though, that they wouldn’t speak a word of it without his consent.

“Shall we walk?” Victor asked, extending his right arm towards Sherlock in invitation. Sherlock was still hesitant; half of him felt like punching Victor while the other half of him, the other half wanted nothing more than to fall at his feet and pray that this wasn’t a dream. 

Sherlock took Victor’s slightly larger and broader hand in his, instead.

Victor gave him a sad smile, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of his own return: hesitant, yet hopeful to be welcomed back. To be wanted back. “I had no other choice, you understand. Of course you understand.” Victor touched Sherlock’s sharper-than-usual cheek, then gently caressed it with his thumb. “I’m so sorry, love.”

And, oh, did that hurt. ‘Sorry’ didn’t even begin to make up for what Victor had done. Sherlock wanted to shout, to hit, he wanted to push Victor away, him and that stupid dog that wouldn’t. Stop. Staring at him. Sherlock wanted to do many things to convey his anger and much his deceit had hurt him.

Then he remembered John and how he had felt when his own reunion didn’t turn out the way he had wanted it to. About how much it hurt to feel rejected by his best friend.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, then stepped toward Victor, just to wrap his arms around his thicker frame, all muscle and strength. “I understand.” Sherlock took a deep breath to try and calm himself. The last thing he wanted was another breakdown, and he didn’t want to add to the exhaustion he felt from spilling his soul out to Molly and Mary earlier that evening. Who knew that being that vulnerable was the most exhausting thing in the world?

“I just, I never realized it could hurt this badly. I--” Sherlock gasped again. The deep breaths weren’t working. “I think I owe John a proper apology.”

Victor’s brow lifted at the non-sequitur but chose to ignore it. He pulled Sherlock close and began stroking his back to alleviate the shaking. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”

Once the threat of a panic attack seemed to have passed, Victor held onto Sherlock’s arms and moved the younger man away, just enough to get a proper look. Victor hummed disapprovingly at the unkempt curls, the dark circles, and at how much thinner the younger man had gotten since the last time he had seen him. “I truly am sorry.”

Sherlock took one last deep breath to ground himself further. He was so tired that he was sure he would fall asleep as soon as he arrived at his flat. But first things first. “I’ll forgive you once I’ve forgiven myself. I still feel guilty over faking my own death, you know.”

Victor chuckled, “Seems fair.”

“And we have a lot of missed walks in the park to make up for.”

“That won't be a problem.” Victor’s smile spread widely, and he pulled Sherlock closer to lean against his chest before resting his head on that curly mop.

“We revealed your identity to the others. Your boss and my brothers are going to be furious.”

“Again, that won't be a problem.”

Sherlock took a few minutes and enjoyed the feeling of Victor’s strong arms around him, the feeling of being surrounded and protected and Christ, he finally believed it. Victor was alive. “So you’re telling me that you’re staying for good, now?”

“Yes, for good. That last mission was a close call,” Victor confessed. “I can’t reveal any crucial details, though I’m sure you’ll deduce the shite out of me once the shock has worn off. I will say that I never hated myself more than when I thought I was never going to see you again. So I’ve quit, and I told Mycroft to shove a rattlesnake up his arse, all for you.”

“You were always the romantic one.” Sherlock finally let go and stepped back to give Victor a good once over this time. And then remembered the dog.

“Oh, yes.” Victor pulled the leash lightly, and the dog obediently stepped forward, then sat in front of Sherlock, looking at him expectantly. “Her name is Rosie,”

Sherlock took off one glove to pet Rosie gently on the head. Rosie’s tail wagged a little faster. “Who was crazy enough to let you borrow her at this time of night?”

Victor gave sherlock a big, happy smile, the one that always made Sherlock’s heart skip a bit. “No one. She’s ours, now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank the mod for the Viclock Exchange Tumblr Blog for being so patient with me. I also want to thank Small Hobbit for being an awesome beta, you are all types of cool and helpful.
> 
> I really want to apologize to how late this was! Sorry aithilin, there were some technical difficulties. I hope you like it though! I don't know if it fits to what you wanted but I tried to keep it in line.
> 
> Anyway I hope you guys enjoyed this fic and support all the Viclockians and rarepair ships because we need it.
> 
> Thank you~


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